The Ballad of Emma O'Toole. Elizabeth Lane
mirrors on the double doors, stood in one corner. On the far wall, a doorway opened into a bathroom with a tub, a basin and—wonder of wonders—a flush toilet.
Hands thrust into his pockets, Logan surveyed their quarters. “Well, is this place fine enough to suit you, Mrs. Devereaux?”
“You needn’t make fun of me,” Emma said. “I’m not ashamed of how I’ve had to live or the honest work I’ve done to survive. If you must have my answer, I judge this place to be a little too fine for sensible taste.”
He chuckled, his smile a flash of white against the deep gold of his skin. She knew nothing about the man’s background, Emma realized, except that he’d made his living as a gambler.
“I wasn’t making fun of you, Emma,” he said. “You’ve a level head, a quick wit and a determined spirit—qualities I admire in a woman. I’m hoping we can at least be friends.”
“Friends!” Anger, combined with frustration and bone deep weariness, burst out of her. “I’d rather be friends with a rattlesnake!”
He exhaled, raking a hand through his rumpled black hair. “Fine, have it your way. Tomorrow you can rail at me to your heart’s content. But tonight I’m worn raw and as grumpy as a buckshot bear. All I want is to eat dinner, go to bed and try to forget the past ten days ever happened.” He glanced toward the bathroom. “Ladies first. But try not to take too much time or you might find me pounding on the door.”
“Oh!” With an indignant huff, Emma wheeled and bolted into the bathroom. Slamming the door behind her and clicking the lock, she sank onto the edge of the tub and buried her face in her hands. Her body shook with dry sobs. How had she gotten herself into this awful mess? And how was she going to get out of it?
She could offer Logan a divorce. He would certainly be glad to oblige. But that would take away her power to punish him. Even more vital was the matter of support for herself and her child. Maybe she could survive in a run-down miner’s shanty with no money. But her baby could easily sicken and die in such a place. She couldn’t risk her precious child for the sake of her pride.
She’d considered selling Billy John’s claim for whatever she could get. But who would buy a worthless outcrop that hadn’t yielded enough silver to buy a decent pair of boots?
It was time she stopped blubbering and faced reality. For now at least, she needed what a husband could provide—food, shelter and security. She would accept that much as her due. But as for the rest, she knew she could never love Logan, and she certainly couldn’t expect him to love her. She was trapped in this arrangement, just as he was.
By the time Emma had finished with the bathroom, dinner had arrived. Two covered plates sat on an oval silver tray, along with gleaming cutlery and linen napkins rolled into silver rings. The stemmed crystal glasses were so delicate that Emma feared they might shatter if she breathed on them.
The staff had also delivered a leather valise that Logan explained he’d left before his arrest. He had it in hand as he stepped into the bathroom.
“I know you’re hungry,” he said. “Go ahead and eat. No need to wait for me.”
As the bathroom door closed, Emma took her seat. The tray sat on the small table between the two chairs. Its elegance caused Emma to hesitate. She’d never eaten such a fine meal in her life. What if she broke or spilled something?
Lifting the knob on one domed plate cover, she took a cautious peek. Mouthwatering aromas teased her senses, roast beef with potatoes and gravy, fresh-baked bread…She inhaled, feasting with her nose. Her belly growled with hunger.
But she was a lady, she reminded herself, not some starving wastrel Logan Devereaux had rescued off the street. He needed to know that she could wait politely without wolfing down every scrap put before her. Leaning back in her chair, Emma folded her arms. The chair was soft, the glowing stove deliciously warm. Her eyelids began to droop.
“Emma?”
She opened her eyes. He was gazing down at her, his face freshly shaved, his hair glistening with drops of water.
“Did you have a nice nap?” His eyes held a glint of mischief.
Still muzzy, she blinked up at him. “How…long have I been asleep?”
“Not long. But your dinner might be getting cold. I thought I told you to go ahead and eat.”
“You did. I chose to wait.”
“Well, let’s not wait any longer.” He whisked the covers off the plates. Emma’s dinner was still hot, the beef smothered in rich brown gravy, accompanied by mashed potatoes, glazed carrot slices and plump, golden dinner rolls with strawberry jam. Spreading her napkin on her lap, she used her fork to spear a sliver of meat. Her first taste was so sublime that she almost wept.
“Is something wrong?” Logan asked.
Emma shook her head. “It’s only that I’ve never eaten such a wonderful meal in my life.”
“It’s just roast beef and gravy.”
“I know. But it’s so good. And I’m so hungry.”
Something glimmered in the depths of his eyes. He glanced away, and when he looked back it was replaced by the chilly gaze she’d come to recognize. “Eat it up while it’s warm,” he said. “And remember there’s more where that came from. I may be a coldhearted bastard, but I’d never let a woman starve.”
Emma’s scramble for a clever reply came up empty. She supposed she should thank him for the meal. But after what he’d done to Billy John, he owed her more than a man could repay in a hundred years.
Her gaze shifted to the bed. Awkward as things were between them now, they were bound to get worse. When the judge had counseled her to be a submissive wife Emma had known exactly what the old goat meant. But that didn’t mean she had to heed his advice. If Logan so much as laid a hand on her tonight…
“Champagne?” Logan had opened a slender bottle and was holding it with the lip poised above the rim of her glass.
“You ordered champagne?”
“It was included with the room. A gift from the hotel to the happy newlyweds. Have you ever had champagne, Emma?”
“I’ve tasted beer. It was awful.”
“There’s nothing awful about this. Try it.” He poured two fingers into her glass. Swirling bubbles effervesced to rainbow sparks in the lamplight. Logan sat back in his chair, watching her, his eyes hooded in shadow.
Emma lifted the glass to her lips, then paused as a thought struck her. “You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?”
“Lord, no! Just taste it.”
Tipping the glass, Emma took a tentative sip. The glowing liquid burst like sunlight on her tongue. Its flavor was elusive—fresh and slightly tart. “Oh,” she said, taking another sip. “Oh, my goodness!”
“More?”
“Just a little.” She indicated a small measure with her fingers. “Too much might not be good for the baby.”
“Oh, that’s right, the baby.” He poured her another two fingers of champagne. Emma took tiny sips, savoring the taste as she gathered her courage. What she had to say couldn’t wait much longer.
“There’s something else that might not be good for the baby.” She glanced toward the bed. “I’m well aware of your marital rights, Logan, but you can hardly expect to…” Her voice trailed off. Color flooded her face. She barely knew the words for what she needed to tell him.
“Listen to me, Emma.” He leaned forward in his chair, his dark eyes probing hers. “I want to make this perfectly clear. You’re a beautiful, desirable woman. If things were different between us, I’d carry you to that bed, rip off those god-awful clothes and make love to you all night. But I like my women